


Circa Gravitas

by xazliin



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 21:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30045012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xazliin/pseuds/xazliin
Summary: “Fucking hell, George,” Clay whispers, eyes dark and shining. “Do you even know how hot you look right now?”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 234





	Circa Gravitas

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally scene of a larger project I ultimately scrapped, but I liked it too much to delete, so I reworked it into it's own little thing.  
> Enjoy :)

Out of all the possible reasons, it starts because George doesn’t get out of bed.

He isn’t even really sleeping--just laying face-down in the pillow with his eyes closed, listening to TikTok on the quietest volume. When he hears the door creak open, George groans and buries his head under the comforter. 

“Oh, come on,” he hears Clay scoff. “This is absurd.”

George mumbles something in the shape of ‘go away.’

“You’d be awake if you were in London right now.” Clay bumps the side of the bed with his foot, “I’m hungry.”

“ _Then eat_.”

George knows Clay must be rolling his eyes, “And then you’ll complain for the rest of the week about how I got dinner without you.”

Maybe Clay is right. _Maybe._ It’s still not a good enough reason for George to get up.

Suddenly, the comforter is ripped away from him. Cold air conditioned air nips at his exposed ankles. 

“Rude,” George scowls. When he turns onto his back to look, Clay is smirking victoriously. Clay drops the comforter to the floor. There’s something about the look on his face that makes George kick out his leg and jab at Clay’s ribs.

Clay wraps his hand around George’s ankle and starts to pull him across the bed. They’re play-wrestling like they’re kids, now. George kicks and flails. He reaches out to try and pry Clay’s hands off his legs and Clay grabs him by the wrist. Clay may have the size advantage, but George isn’t afraid to fight dirty. He twists, kneeing Clay in the stomach. 

“ _Rude,_ ” Clay parrots in a bad fake British accent, but he doesn’t release George’s arm. Instead, he pushes George onto his back and pins his hand up beside his head. When George tries to shimmy away, he pins George’s other hand and swings his leg over George’s lower hips. 

George pushes against Clay’s restraints and receives little give. “Okay,” he blows out a huff of air, “You’ve won, I guess.”

George feels too warm. It’s probably exertion, he reckons. He can feel the heat of everywhere Clay’s pressed up against him. Even just his fingers against George’s wrists feel like they’re burning.

It takes him a moment to realize that it’s a little strange that Clay hasn’t let him go yet.

It takes him another moment to realize that: 1) the fabric of his pyjamas pants are much thinner than would be ideal at the present moment and 2) Clay should _really_ be letting him go now. When he looks to Clay’s face, his gaze seems to be transfixed to a spot near George’s waistband.

“Erm, Clay?” George asks. It’s much breathier than he intended. 

The other man’s eyes zip up to meet George’s. His pupils are blown. They dart around George’s face, never making eye contact for more than a second. Red rises to Clay’s cheeks. “Oh--uh--sorry,” he says, releasing George’s wrists. His voice sounds like _he’s_ the one who just woke up.

The noise George makes is somewhere between a whimper and a groan. George doesn’t mean to--he doesn’t _know_ he’s made the noise until he’s heard it with his own ears. 

And then Clay’s arm comes up beside George’s head to prop him up, and there’s a flash of bright, green irises, and then there’s the feeling of lips against George’s. There’s a thumb rubbing circles into the cut of his hip.

The hand at George’s hip pushes at the fabric of George’s shirt. _Up, up, up,_ until they pull their faces away from each other and Clay lifts the shirt up over George’s head.

_“Fucking hell,_ George,” Clay whispers, eyes dark and shining. “Do you even know how hot you look right now?”

George feels himself blush. He bites his lip and watches Clay’s eyes track the movement.

“I wish you could see yourself,” Clay drags his hand up George’s chest. Goosebumps trail behind like a comet’s tail. Delicately, he skims up George’s neck, traces the line of his jaw, then moves back down to his chest. “You look so fucking good like this--all splayed out and--and waiting for me. _Fuck,_ George, are you waiting for me?”

George nods because he knows that's what Clay wants him to do.

Clay’s lips are on his. The kiss is just as messy as it is desperate. George fists one hand in Clay’s hair and uses the other one to pull Clay’s body closer to his. Clay grazes his teeth across George’s bottom lip and George groans into his open mouth.

He tugs at the collar of Clay’s shirt. “Hmmphh,” he mumbles into the kiss. “Shirt. _Off._ ”

Dutifully, Clay pulls his shirt up over his head. George’s palms explore the now-open expanse of Clay’s back. Clay is built all hot and solid--just enough muscle to hint at a strength hidden beneath his lanky frame.

Clay’s mouth moves to George’s neck. High, just beneath George’s ear, he nips at George’s skin. George feels like he’s about to combust. He slots his knee up between Clay’s thighs, putting a gentle pressure against the denim of his jeans.

Using one arm to prop himself up, Clay palms his other hand along the crotch of George’s sweatpants.

George makes a noise that he swears isn’t a moan and Clay pulls away from his neck to smirk down at him.

“Shut up,” George says, but his breath catches when Clay presses his hand into him a little firmer and the words have no bite.

“I didn’t say anything,” Clay drawls.

“Y-yeah, well,” George stutters, struggling to form any thoughts other than _Clay_ and _keep going_ and _Jesus Fucking Christ._ “You were about to.”

Clay shrugs and smothers anything else George might be about to say with another kiss. His face lingers there and soon they’re not so much kissing as they are pressing their mouths together.

George works the button of Clay’s jeans open as quickly as he’s capable. When he does, he sticks his hand right down the inside of Clay’s boxers. He only freezes for two or three seconds before laying a quick peck on Clay’s lips and taking Clay in his hand. It’s strange but familiar at the same time. George let’s instinct guide him past a Big Gay Freakout™. Making Clay feel good--no, great--is much more important than that.

Clay shudders.

George takes the opportunity to pull at Clay’s shoulder and push him onto his back. He straddles the other man’s waist, grinning, “Oh, how the turntables.”

George feels it in his thighs when Clay giggles, “You’re such a fucking dork.”

“Hey, hey, don’t forget who’s got all the leverage here,” George splays his hands over Clay’s broad chest.

Clay cocks an eyebrow at him, “Oh? Do you think that’s you?”

With impressive ease, Clay lifts George’s hands and maneuvers George onto his back again. He uses one hand to pin George’ wrists above his head and the other to poke George below the ribs. “Hm? What was that?” He does it again and George squeaks. “I’m sorry, were you saying something about leverage?”

“Okay, okay!” George laughs. “I concede.”

“Good,” Clay hums. He releases George's hands and then they’re kissing again.

George works himself back up to reaching down Clay’s boxers once more, this time with more certainty. It takes a certain amount of brainpower lick into Clay’s mouth and jerk him off at the same time, but George manages to-- _heh_ \--pull it off.

Unable to continue kissing back, Clay removes his mouth from George’s and nudges his face along George’s jaw, breathing heavy and loud in George’s ear. “ _Fuck,_ ” he groans, low and slow. George grinds himself against the solid form of Clay’s thigh.

It feels like a matter of moments until Clay’s breathing turns into a long string of obscenities and they’re both coming undone.

Clay collapses on top of George. He presses his face into George’s hair while they catch their breath.

George stares up at the popcorn ceiling. He did it. He had sex with Clay and the world didn’t end and it was _great._

… and he came in his pants like a teenager.

“As much as I appreciate this right now,” George says softly, “you’re kind of squeezing all the air from my lungs.”

Clay sighs into George’s scalp, “If that’s the price I have to pay for comfort, so be it.”

“Get off of me, you asshole,” George laughs and rolls Clay to the other side of the bed. 


End file.
